


Movement: Melancolico

by Iristedeu



Series: Movement [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bard Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Canonical Character Death, Depression, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iristedeu/pseuds/Iristedeu
Summary: Alvaar has never been the sort to give himself time for pause. There was too much to do as the Warrior of Light, too many wrongs to try and right as the world shifts under his feet after the Vault. But having ripped yet another tyrant from his throne and finally taking time to grieve...Why is it the hardest battle he's had to face is the frozen state of his own blackened heart?An introspection on grief and depression, and the importance of the people who stay by your side.
Relationships: Alphinaud Leveilleur & Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: Movement [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744579
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Depression

**Author's Note:**

> Time Frame: Heavensward. Spoilers accordingly.
> 
> Notes: Warnings for a more personal and introspective look at grief and depression, as well as accompanying thoughts of suicide. This is by far the darkest piece posted thus far, but it’s important to Alvaar’s character and I don’t like to gloss over the impact it left on him and his subsequent relationships with others. Scions especially.

It was over. Thordan was dead, Haurchefant’s killer had been slain with him, and in the quickly growing pile of problems already stacking before the remaining Scions Alvaar only cared about one. He’d dragged another tyrant low and put more Primals back into aetheric dust, the world could hold a moment for him to attend the funeral of the man he’d loved when he’d put his own grief aside to see justice done. And somehow, for all the near brushes with his grief he’d had chasing after Thordan, when he’d finally given himself leave to let it wash over him...

Alvaar still hadn’t managed a single tear.

It spared the Count a scene at least, having only held the hand of his beloved when he paid his respects. A hand that felt alien and cold, stiff and somehow like it was hollow, empty of the vibrant and warm soul that had once been bursting within. A man that could ask him to smile on his dying breaths...

He’d dipped his chin, murmured his words of goodbye, and walked away feeling as though whatever warmth that had lingered in him now lay in that casket to keep Haurchefant company. He wouldn’t need it. Surely he’d never feel anything so warm again without him.

Tataru and, somehow surprising to him, Alphinaud, had lingered by his side. The Lalafell’s hands wrapped tight about his and he barely felt it at all. He’d only sat still and silent through the funeral before he found himself being guided away once the candles had started to burn out. Led through the streets like some dumb beast of burden by the small hands holding his and the slim arm at his back.

He didn’t know what words they’d said nor what they’d done, only that he’d fallen face first into a bed that didn’t carry a trace of the young lords cologne and somehow the absence of it felt both fitting and obscenely painful.

The next day passed like a haze as he stayed still and silent in the darkened room and remained relatively mute to anyone that came calling. His solitude was only broken when Alphinaud finally shoved the door in after the third unanswered knock to let Tataru nervously follow along behind him. Once he’d sulkily sat up to stare at them both he was immediately greeted to a bowl of stew being held towards him as the Lalafell chattered about it being her latest learned recipe at the Forgotten Knight. And with the Arcanist already clearing off the side table and dragging over chairs for himself and Tataru, he’d had little choice but to entertain them, listening quietly as Tataru brought up what bits of inane gossip she could, pointedly staying far away from the issues at hand.

The next day Tataru returned, this time carrying a cutely adorned basket along with his breakfast. He’d no sooner finished (more from the pressure of her stare than hunger) when she was pulling out her embroidery hoop and asking him to teach her a new pattern. After an overly long silence which she stayed determinedly, if not earnestly, expectant at his eventually reply, he acquiesced. With a small flourish of light his own needlework set appeared in his hands and he’d studied the blank fabric for a while mulling it over. He knew invariably she would want to embellish her clothes with something unique for her newfound workplace and pondered what designs might work as he wordlessly accepted the fabric pen she held over to him.

Opting against designs of the straight spires of the buildings around them (for they only reminded him of bloodied lances rising from a corpse) he settled for a heavy lined sketch that left the Lalafell confused until his thread and needle began to fly, stitching white over the swirl of icy blue ink lines. Her eyes immediately lit up with excitement, hopping up beside him to watch as the frost patterns were quickly embellished in with delicate stitches and raised knots.

“I spoke with an elderly woman at the guild here. Apparently, there’s a technique called thread painting that’s become rather popular with the ladies of estate. If you were to very carefully bleach out some of the color for your base lines, you can embellish them with silver floss like so. Think of it like fern reeds at first but add more swirls to the frond ends and a few straight fractals with your thread. Like frost on the windowpane,” he murmured, holding his fabric away so Tataru could watch him work.

“Oh! Alvaar that’s genius! I have just the perfect blue piece that could use sprucing up!” she chirped.

“If you can, try on a part you can’t see first. You’ll want to see how much the bleach spreads through the fibers,” he continued, reciting the pointers he’d been given.

They’d spent almost two hours with their needlework, the Bard patiently advising and even handing off his teaching piece and a few spools of cotton silver floss for her to use. As soon as she left in her usual scurry for work, he’d waited for the door to close before fitting another piece of fabric into the hoop, securing his needle, and banishing them back into nothingness.

Without the chatter or direction, he’d returned promptly into a defeated sulk for several hours, interrupted only by Alphinaud letting himself in after his knocks were ignored.

Alvaar didn’t bother to sit up, not fully certain why the young Elezen was there when Tataru wouldn’t be out from her shift for another four hours at least. Not unless he was here to be dragged along as both physical and mental muscle for another round of Leveilleur politics.

And if that was the case the boy was about to be terribly disappointed by his newfound depths of apathy.

What else would it be? A rousing speech to rise up from despair and fight for a better Eorzea? A plea or summons from yet another far off city needing their help yet again? Another return to conflict against the shade of Nidhogg that had claimed Esti-

“Drink.”

The flat no nonsense tone made him flick an ear as weary puzzlement pulled at his brow. Sliding his gaze over to the Arcanist he stared at him mutely and the thermos he held out to him.

“You have to keep your fluids up or you’ll get dehydrated and sick, now drink,” Alphinaud commanded again, though Alvaar could hear the faint nervous tone underneath. The sound of someone trying to be brave in the face of something unfamiliar he figured, as the boy had scarcely ever seen the Warrior of Light in any state that wasn’t still rock steady. Even in the face of Bahamut he’d kept his emotions under control and been responsive despite internal fear. And even after losing himself to rage fighting against Ilberd, he had quickly come back around and behaved normally once he’d been snapped out of it…

It was perhaps the most telling of how his mood must appear, given the youth had marched headstrong into each major city without so much as a pause of step to speak with political giants.

A faint snort left him, but he sat up anyway to continue pinning the Arcanist with that stare for a few moments more before holding his hand out. Accepting the container he removed the cap, staring at the pale liquid inside as a strong whiff of mulling spice reached him.

“.... Mulled tea? ... the scent is right, but the color is off. Did they substitute tea leaves?” he mused, taking another light whiff before tasting it.

“They didn’t have any Thanalan tea leaves, likely because the secular attitude hasn’t left much in the way of trade routes with Ul’dah. Hopefully that will change in the near future when... well. We finish what we’ve started.” Noting Alvaar’s flat stare, Alphinaud fidgeted, looking away promptly and finally moving to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at his shoes. “.... I’m sorry if it doesn’t taste right. I... tried my best to brew it the way you showed me,” he murmured.

There was a pointed silence that stretched out between them before the Bard took another drink in thought.

“It’s different. A bit weaker. Coerthan tea leaves don’t have as much flavor due to the harsher growing environment and tending to be dried from the cold instead of the sun. It’s not as oxidized as in Thanalan, despite being the same plant. It takes almost double the amount, but a weak brew is sometimes a better option than a strong one. You can sometimes brew again, but removing bitter flavors is difficult,” Alvaar mused.

“Ah... sorry...”

“Don’t be. It’s not bad, just different but a good enough substitute. In fact, it brings out more of the mulled spices as Coerthan tea has more of an earthy flavor. It’s also not bitter from over steeping. That’s usually the most difficult part,” he whispered, staring at the container. “I’ll have to teach you how to make Ishgardian tea. They use yaks milk here and steep the tea right in the milk. It’s quite a bit different from in the south. There the milk is a primary additive and not used as a base.”

Alphinaud blinked at him, tilting his head some once Alvaar had fallen quiet again. “You know quite a lot about tea.”

It got another snort. “I’d hope so. I had to get a real good eye for it given it sells pretty consistently. Nobles love their herbs and spices. It’s a lovely show of status to have foreign spices in your food or at your table. ...Did you know Y’shtola loves Coerthan tea? I’d usually harvest a bit extra for her.”

“Does she? Hm, I wouldn’t have guessed. ... so, what made you interested in botany? I confess, it was not a topic I went to at the Studium.”

The Bard was quiet for a spell, still studying the pale liquid intently. When Alphinaud didn’t seem to show any sign of leaving or pressing him further, he at last sighed and looked up.

“Money. I arrived to Gridania with little more than what I carried and maybe a thousand Gil. Just enough to stay a day or two and find some work.”

At that the teen stared at him in silence for a few moments, during which the Bard took another slow drink while maintaining eye contact.

“... Y-you’re serious?”

“I needed the money.”

“No that you only had access to a thousand Gil. Did you have a credit line or access to-”

“We don’t all have very accommodating rich parents Leveilleur. In fact, some of us don’t have parents at all,” he cut in flatly before taking another sip as he looked away. “It can’t all be heroic battles and cajoling with the big brass of foreign nations. It hardly puts food on the table much less pays the cost of raw materials to craft into some form of steady income.”

At that the Arcanist seemed a bit chastised, studying the floor again. “Weren’t you paid for your work with the Scions?” he asked softly, still a note of disbelief in his tone.

Holding up a hand the Bard began ticking things off his fingers. “Travel expenses. Lodging. Equipment costs. Repair bills for said equipment. Food and potion expenses... At the end of the day I break even Alphi. And that’s only sustainable if I show up to do great heroic feats every day, which you might forgive me if I find that a little disconcerting to be that needed. Besides, I have retainers and a chocobo to pay for. That’s the bulk of the reason I joined the Twin Adders and that was mostly to open up a way into marketplaces while being mobile.”

Alphinaud was silent for a short while, contemplating the idea of it and hanging his head a bit more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Flicking his gaze over to the snowy haired teen, Alvaar frowned slightly at himself before ruffling his hair and looking away again. “I’m not. At least it’s honest work. Besides, Scion work is sort of, you know... nonprofit. I can’t really demand more pay and I wouldn’t anyway. Keeps me busy. And I genuinely like many of the trades I’ve picked up. It sort of... grounds the adventuring. Reminds you of why you do the insane heroics.”

“Yes... I’ve certainly found that perspective is all important to what we do...” the Arcanist replied, managing at least a vaguely upbeat tone. “Still, I apologize for being ignorant of your situation.”

“Don’t worry about it Alphinaud. It’s not your problem and you’re in a very wide majority of people that don’t ask about my life. Most don’t really care about what happens to their neighbors much less the man under the mask and I don’t make a habit of supplying details anyway. In fact, the only person that really dug into my life was... well. Haurchefant.”

At that the mood grew even more dim, punctuated by a single soft and saddened laugh from the Bard. “He used to trade me folktales and history for stories about myself... I suppose I’ll never find out how the story of the ‘Moonstone Lanner’ ends...”

Setting the now empty thermos on the nightstand with a ringing thud, he rested his head on his drawn-up knees and wrapped his arms about himself, burying his face away from view.

“Damnit Greystone...” he murmured, voice faint and hollow. Even now... STILL... No tears would come to him and-

“Do you know anything about Sharlayan?”

The words were a bit rushed but they made Alvaar pause anyway, lifting an arm up enough to see Alphinaud’s expectant look.

“.... No. Why?”

“Would you like to? I still remember many of the things on its history from my time in the Studium. And even a few myths and legends if you prefer that instead.”

Staring at him flatly for a long beat, he finally sighed when the Elezen seemed content to wait for a reply and even more than ready to stay seated at his bedside. “Fine. Give me a myth. Something fantastical.”

“I can think of a few. Here, eat this. Tataru said she would bring you dinner but that’s still a few hours yet,” he answered, holding over a wrapped-up handkerchief containing some form of braided bread.

A deeper sigh left him but he accepted it anyways, rearranging a number of pillows back behind him before falling into them with a feathery thump as the arcanist began his story.

Another day and then a second passed in similar fashion, Tataru asking him about this craft or another in the morning with his breakfast and Alphinaud telling him a story or three with his lunch. In the late evening they both made an appearance with dinner, sharing whatever Tataru had been allowed to take with her (which he noted was a much larger and more complex portion of leftovers than any one Lalafell would need) and chatting or playing cards.

And in the times between he would lie silent and still in the dark as if in some waking dream with only the ever-present sound of the howling winds to accompany his depression.

On the third day, both maid and Arcanist had dutifully reminded him (no less than three times a piece) that Tataru would have a particularly late shift and he should _definitely_ make sure he went to or otherwise acquired dinner. He’d offered mute nods and mentally brushed it off as the vain test it was. He didn’t want food or water.

He just wanted to be left alone.

If the winds of The Pillars were colder than anywhere else in Coerthas, Alvaar couldn’t tell as he stared down into the inky black. The almost ever-present snow remained, spiraling away out of even his keen vision as it dwindled out of the lamplight of the city and vanished into the obsidian depths below.

Once he wouldn’t have had much interest in studying so steep of a fall, leaned against the balcony of his loaned room at the Fortemps Manor. Once he would have had much more of an interest in being inside where it was warm, curled up under the arm of his lover. Once he would have shared stories of his travels and listened for hours as the Lord of Camp Dragonhead regaled him with the long history and folktales of Coerthas.

Once, Haurchefant wouldn’t be lying cold in ground that was colder still and would have been there to keep him warm both inside and out with his cheerful demeanor.

Now Alvaar wasn’t certain if he’d ever really feel the cold again with how numb his heart still felt. Like it hadn’t beat since Haurchefant had been run through. His insides colder still then the hellscape of ice and snow about him. Indifferent to the frozen winds that ripped at his loose cotton tunic and leather breeches.

He stared into the inky black, gaping like the maw of some colossal dragon intent to swallow all Ishgard and her people, and he felt nothing.

Three days and still...

He felt no outrage that often sparked in him after those he loved were attacked. He felt no sense of duty driving him to feats of heroic stupidity. No sadness to linger and mourn the loss of a man he’d truly come to love. There was a growing pile of bodies about him to avenge, a city stirring in unrest in the wake of a millennia of lies, Scions to track down, and a war to help end.

Even so he stared at that abyss and he felt nothing but a desire to be consumed in it. To let it swallow him up and put an end to the unyielding march of the Warrior of Light. The heroic figure of myth and legend that made a target of every mere mortal around him... until, inevitably, he would die standing alone. Haurchefant and Ysayle, both dead on this journey, and surely by now Estinien has been consumed in Nidhogg’s rage...

His friends were dying around him as he fought for a country that wasn’t his own. Hadn’t he done enough? Couldn’t he at least grieve for what had been lost?

It was bitter, and it was petty, but in his dark apathy he thought maybe if he let that yawning void consume him then he’d at last feel like he could break down and cry.

Finally shed the tears that had burned in his eyes as he held his dying lover in his arms. The same tears that remained hot and still refused to fall in the ensuing chase. When he’d battled Primals, and Garleans, and lost more friends. Even at Haurchefant’s funeral and afterward, when he’d felt the concerned stares of his few remaining Scions and the House of Fortemps who knew what the man had meant to him.

He’d told him the night before the Vault that he loved him... and now when he finally stole a moment of his own he couldn’t even shed the damn tears with this cursed icy heart in his chest.

It would be so fitting...

Just a step...

Just a short climb...

And he’d vanish into nothingness again…


	2. Catharsis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's gotten longer than anticipated. Next chapter incoming.

The wrought iron of the guard rail was firm and unyielding under his hand, slick with ice as everything was in Ishgard. It bit with frozen fangs at his skin but whatever chill resided in him must have bitten back harder for it didn’t bother him.

It was only him, that unyielding iron, and a siren song of wind above an eternity of darkness. The howl of gales like a primal song, and if he listened...

_just LISTENED_

Then surely he’d find his answer. Find why no matter how hard he clutched at his chest his frozen heart wouldn’t let him grieve properly. Wouldn’t let him scream in pain and outrage and finally let whatever fire burned in the back of his eyes to slip free.

To feel SOMETHING, _ANYTHING_ , for the death of a man he’d loved.

A deep breath.

Then two.

If he listened just a bit closer. Leaned out a bit farther...

He heard someone call his name. Whispered against his ear softly like those nights they’d been together.

Like a quiet promise.

An affirmation.

Someone who saw HIM under the mantle of a hero.

He blinked, ears twitching at a thought that came back to him in Haurchefant’s voice. When he’d looked over the summary he’d written as reference regarding Edda, once he’d finally felt capable of putting that story to pen that it might help him cope.

_I know you love a good drama my dear, but this is a bit much._

“.... yea. It really is isn’t it?” he whispered to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Next thing you know I’ll be in Amdapor Keep trying to bring you back from the dead and it will all get pretty fucked up from there. And it’s been done before, I can’t wear another person’s plot, too tacky...”

“ALVAAR!”

The cry nearly spooked the Bard over, quite abruptly getting the wind knocked out of him as he was slammed up against the sturdy railing he’d been standing before, the top bar hitting him square in the stomach. Scrambling for a grip that refused him, he could only give a choked squeak as he was hauled backwards and off balance to crash into the floor, head twinging in pain as it connected with stone briefly but thankfully not very hard.

An equally pained grunt sounded from underneath him, some brief swirl of static in Alvaar’s brain at last settling into the notion the floor was not as flat as it should be, and instinctively trying to shift away.

The arms clutched around his waist like a vise however, were not to be dissuaded.

“What in the seven hells were you doing?!” a familiar voice yelled into his shoulder, cracking a bit on the pitch and making the Bard twitch on reflex, and then again as it sank in he’d just heard Alphinaud swear.

“Alphi...?” he started, voice trailing as he distantly realized the slim Elezen mostly buried under him where they’d fallen was shaking.

“By the Twelve what were you thinking?! Half leaned over the rail like you we-” the hoarse tirade finally cracked and broke off as the Arcanist buried his face into Alvaar’s shoulder. “You could have... you couldhave-”

A slight wince touched the Bards face as fingers spread and dug into his side in a last desperate grapple to keep him from moving, needle pricks of pain that suddenly fell from thought at the choked sob into his shirt.

“Don’t leave me too...”

There was a startled thump in his chest, his heart pulsing off beat at that pain filled whimper and in a sudden rush he finally noticed how much his face and hands stung like he’d been caught in a shower of cactaur needles. Everything prickled, and ached, and he was certain this must be the most miserably cold he’d ever felt in his life.

“Don’t leave me! First Grandfather, then Alisaie, then the Braves, and the Scions, now Lord Haurchefant and Ysayle and Estinien... don’t be the next one to leave me behind!” he cried.

“Alphi,” Alvaar managed again, this time a slight shake in the word as his teeth chattered with a shiver. He pried the Arcanist off him just enough to turn and bury him in his arms, hauling them both a bit farther into the room where he could kick the patio door closed. In the rush of warm air that followed he shivered again, feeling both frozen and burning up from the heat.

Finally sinking into the thick carpet, he sighed and held Alphinaud tighter.

“I’m not going anywhere, Leveilleur. I’m still here,” he whispered, tucking him under his chin and squeezing him briefly.

“T-then why were you.... Alvaar...” Butting his head a bit harder into the Bards collar than he meant to, Alphinaud tensed for a moment before snapping at him. “Why did you lock the door?!” he demanded, gripping the Bards collar and shaking him firmly with a sudden temper.

“I... I don’t know,” Alvaar replied softly. “Habit probably.”

“And you were outside during a blizzard and I thought you were going to... A-Alvaar you looked like you were-”

He was silenced as the Bard yanked him back into another hug.

“No,” he replied firmly. “I’m not going anywhere, that’s a promise. You still need to tell me how that story ends, and I need to see how Tataru’s needlepoint comes out... We’re going to save this damn country, and rescue Estinien, and any day now we’ll hear from Urianger that another of our friends contacted him and we’ll all soon be back in the Rising Stones where we belong! I’m not leaving you to face that alone Leveilleur on that you have my word!” Alvaar snapped back, voice suddenly firm with conviction.

Yes, of course. How could he forget? How could his thoughts have even passingly considered that fall? He’d made a promise hadn’t he? To protect Alphinaud and Tataru.

He was still awaiting a letter back from one of the members of his Free Company. There were still those Ishgard recipes he needed to learn...

He felt slim arms wrap around his chest, fingers clutching into his shirt and his heart squeezed a bit at the faint shaking of his charge as Alphinaud tried to hold back his tears. Damnit... he was supposed to be the one steady constant this boy could rely on and once again he’d... Another shiver racked through him stubbornly, cold fire still burning across his skin and he did his best to ignore it. No, he could worry about his own problems later and it probably served him right and-

He opened his eyes and jerked slightly at the bright glowing red of a ruby carbuncle sniffing at him. Large dark eyes regarded him, and maybe it was just from being this close to one of the summons but he could have sworn it seemed a little more... intelligent than the rest he’d seen in his travels.

Another shudder went through him from the bone deep chill and the carbuncle cocked its head to the side slightly before perking up as its master moved.

Alphinaud let go of the Bards shirt only so he could make some gesture Alvaar couldn’t see and tap the open floor near his hands. It took a second attempt for a soft quick whistle to pass his lips and the summon bounded away.

Thoroughly confused, the Bard didn’t have long to ponder it before one of the lighter blankets on the bed fell onto him, earning a faint curse. A soft snort left the Arcanist, peering up at Alvaar slightly once the blanket was moved from over their heads. A fan of several red tails traipsed out of Alvaar’s line of sight as the carbuncle dragged the blanket down over them. It padded around the two before it quickly curled up at the Bards back, radiating heat like a small furnace.

Alvaar was quiet for a few moments before shaking his head. “Really?”

The Arcanist twitched slightly in his grip. “What do you mean ‘really’?”

“You trained a carbuncle to fetch and be a personal heater?”

“What? Of course not. That’s completely absurd. I _designed_ it to have the capacity for such tasks. You can’t _train_ a summoned carbuncle to do anything.”

“By the Gods... Alphi I know nothing about summons but that’s probably the weirdest statement I’ve ever heard you say, and also you’re amazing,” Alvaar murmured with a weak laugh. “You frikkin nerd we should just move somewhere warmer.”

“This room is freezing Alvaar and unless you intend to leave it there’s nowhere else to go. You’ve been shivering this whole-time and...” the Arcanist trailed off, fingers worrying at the back of Alvaar’s shirt as he mulled over his words. The ruby carbuncle at the Bards back shifted during that silence, settling a bit closer and nuzzling against his neck with a soft chirp.

“Please just let me help you,” Alphinaud whispered so softly Alvaar almost missed it.

He was silent for some time before settling a bit heavier against the carpeted floor. He still ached and his skin still stung but... it was the warmest he’d felt in several days. Heat finally seeming to sink down into that bone deep chill and getting his heart to thaw.

Before he could think better of it, he pressed a faint kiss to snowy strands affectionately and stayed still.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, shutting his eyes and soaking in the heat.

Yes... he couldn’t forget that long away lesson could he? Even the White Wolf needed to lean into others once in a while. Haurchefant may be gone but there were still others he could count on. Others he could call friends and companions...

He blinked with a faint start as tears burned in his eyes and for the first time in a week finally slipped free, burning across his skin as they fell even as he instinctively tried to stop them. Of course... of course his grief would finally crop up now in front of the one perso-

Fingers clutched tighter at him, hugging him a fraction firmer even as the carbuncle at his back nuzzled at him again. “It’s okay,” Alphinaud murmured, voice soft and a faint bit nervous but adding on a bit louder. “I’ve got you.”

Really...? This little pipsqueak was going to repeat his own words back at-

A sharp aching gasp finally dragged into his lungs as he realized he’d been holding his breath, choking on a soft sound of pain. A shudder went through him that was different from the cold, clutching a bit tighter to that small frame as sadness and heartache finally overtook him. Struggling against instinctive pride to not breakdown in front of a person he swore to protect even as the tears continued to fall and quiet pained sobs shook through him.

Hang it all... What was the point of pride if it tore you apart inside? Hadn’t he learned from Rosa that there was healing in coming to terms with grief?

Burying the Arcanist in his arms he let that weakness finally overtake him, tears running free and punctuated with the occasional stiff inhale.

When Alvaar finally roused back out from his grief it’s at the behest of a plushly furred and squishy cheek rubbing against his jaw with a soft purr. He doesn’t know quite how long it’s been, only that the shudders had stopped a little while ago and he feels absolutely wretched. There’s the buzz of something approaching a headache centered on his forehead, and his face and chest ache from crying. The upper arm of his sleeve is also soaked from tears and a runny nose he’d kept stubbornly trying to wipe away.

It was, by his estimation, annoying as hell and completely gross. Especially when whatever well he’d pulled those tears from didn’t seem empty in the slightest.

A soft squeaky chirp interrupted his mulling, making him lift a hand to ruffle ruby fur gently. The shift had Alphinaud moving as well, pushing back enough to look up at him.

“Do you feel any better?” he asked, words soft and hesitant.

“No.”

The flat answer seems to surprise him, vibrant blue eyes blinking before glancing away. There’s a tension still taunt in the Arcanist’s muscles even as Alvaar curls back up around him.

“But that’s fine... I don’t have to be better just yet. Everything is as different as it is the same, and I’ll adapt to this too. It’s not the first time I’ve lost something important, and I don’t imagine it will be the last.”

It’s a harrowing thought even as he says it. Harsh wisdom dredged up from unconscious and cynical thoughts. And as much as he wants to think there’s nothing left for him to lose, he knows better than to tempt his fate. These people who have remained stubborn at his side have long managed to worm their way into his heart after all. He wouldn’t have shrugged off blows from Ser Paulecrain while making Ser Grinnaux into an armored pincushion in court if he didn’t care deeply for Alphinaud and Tataru both.

He wouldn’t feel the deep guilt that he does for constantly dragging the members of his Free Company into his fights. For how closely his own friend and retainer brushed with death in that last battle and walked away permanently scarred...

The notion made his stomach twist, so he shifted his thoughts away from it.

For right now, he supposed, the first order was handling the immediacy. And that would be getting some sleep so he wouldn’t have to keep feeling this awful or endure the creeping headache. ... well, changing his shirt before that definitely... actually no… he really needed a bath given he couldn’t quite recall when his last one had been and the notion of it suddenly demanded his entire attention.

A bath. He needed a bath. That was simple enough to handle. Simple and not spilling out acidic thoughts on the poor youth that still held tight to him in concern.

“Come on, get off to bed Alphinaud it’s late. I’ll be alright. I’m going to take a bath and do the same,” he murmured, patting a slim shoulder.

There were a few beats of still silence before the Arcanist shook his head. “I’m not leaving you,” he stated firmly.

On some level Alvaar understood, but at the moment annoyance filtered through him. “What? Do you intend to chaperone me while I bathe?” he snarked flatly.

The deep shade of red Alphinaud’s cheeks flamed to was almost cute and he probably would have laughed if not for still feeling like he’d been hit by a chocobo cart.

“No! I just... Take ruby with you. If you should need anything it’s more than capable of finding me,” he argued sheepishly.

So, suicide watch then. Lovely.

A sharp retort slipped to his tongue but stilled as he felt a faint tremble in the youth’s arms. Noted how pointedly Alphinaud wasn’t meeting his eye...

Another twist of guilt in his stomach almost made him feel sick. Even as miserable as he felt, how could he blame him? If he’d been in his position, he probably would have thought the same.

Heaving a deep breath he acquiesced. “Fine. But when your carbuncle smells like rose water don’t get mad at me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to 'using his own words against him,' see [Movement: Mesto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24373213) which takes place in events before this.


	3. Sustain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it through this journey, and a huge shoutout to the people who have read, or left kudos, commented, bookmarked, subscribed... it's all been very encouraging and definitely helped me weather through and get this finished!

Somehow Alvaar is startled by the fact Alphinaud is waiting for him in the hallway outside the bath. He probably shouldn’t be, given how much the three of them had needed to depend on each other these last months, but he is regardless.

A year of being treated with the indifference of an errand boy had left its marks it seemed... And though the Arcanist is much different from the haughty whelp he’d willingly followed this is still...

A bright chirp leaves the glowing ruby carbuncle draped over his shoulders, both Bard and Summon still slightly damp from the water and steam, a warm purr rumbling against Alvaar’s ear. It’s the only noise in the otherwise lavish but empty hallway, and he raises a brow as he notes the Arcanist has changed into his sleepwear and a borrowed house coat.

“Stubborn about this aren’t you?” Alvaar comments offhandedly, ruffling plush fur before hefting the large foxlike creature off his shoulders and setting it into Alphinaud’s arms.

It halts whatever flustered reply the Arcanist had been working on, blinking at the damp creature still purring up a storm in his arms.

“You actually gave it a bath?” he squawked instead, steps hurrying after the Bards long strides when he finally noticed the distance.

“Of course I did. I told you I would,” Alvaar returned with a flippant wave of a hand. “He was quite grateful for it too. Takes to water better than my chocobo that’s for sure.”

“That’s...” There’s a soft thump as Alphinaud changes his grip so the summon can leap to the floor. “Rather unnecessary.”

“Yea. Same could be said for singing songs but here I am, a specialist...” Alvaar shot back drily.

He paused in front of the door to his loaned room, raising a brow at the deep dent in the wooden door and broken bits and splinters around the frame. Looking over at Alphinaud, the Arcanist met his stare a moment before a faint frown tugged at his lips, refusing to look away and even resting back on his heels and crossing his arms as if he expected an argument.

“So, where’s the rest of the cavalry?” Alvaar asked lightly.

That threw Alphinaud off, making him blink a moment before he replied. “Count Edmont and Lord Artoirel are visiting with Ser Aymeric last I knew. Discussing strategies for moving forward as diplomatically as possible. Lord Emmanelain is away this evening.”

“Per his usual... and the servants?” Alvaar continued.

“Dismissed early. It’s a skeleton staff.”

Nodding slightly, the Bard returned to studying the door in silence for a long beat before beginning to fuss with the frame and lock a moment before shutting the door and testing it to make sure it stayed shut. Taking a step back there was a brief rush of aether before Alvaar was pulling a pair of boots on, having summoned them from whatever pocket space he kept most of his kit.

“Alvaar... what are you doing?” Alphinaud asked cautiously.

“Remind me to show you how to break into places without force. This must have taken awhile. But if you’re trying to beat a door in, aim near the lock, not center. It applies force better,” Alvaar replied tucking his laces in rather than tying them and studying the door.

“Alvaar do-”

“Here,” Alvaar continued, putting his foot up against the door near the lock but a few inches to the left of it. “Don’t kick a lock directly you’ll break your foot. Put your force into your heel and lean forward with the motion. Stabilize yourself with your back heel. When it takes more than one kick you’ll be rolling back into that support.”

“This isn’t necessary-”

A resounding thud echoed down the hall, making Alphinaud jump as the door burst open with a bang from a single solid kick.

“... Got it?” Alvaar asked flatly as he glanced down at him. “Using a carbuncle is smarter, but direct it to hit there instead. It targets the weakest point of the mechanisms and helps you bend the latch bolt or break the frame faster.”

“Why on Hydaelyn would you kick the door in again?” Alphinaud squeaked, gesturing at the second dent and now definitely broken doorway.

“Because I have to replace it anyway. I may as well teach you something and work out some anger. You ever kick a door in? Absolute rush,” the Bard answered evenly, already stepping through.

“That doesn’t mean that you sh-”

Trailing off with a sigh, the Arcanist pinched at the bridge of his nose and breathed in a slow breath. His carbuncle had fewer qualms, merely pacing in after the Bard with a chirp.

“I wouldn’t say forcing a door in is what I would call _fun_ Aldaviir. It was rather terrifying.”

It earned Alvaar’s gaze when Alphinaud finally followed him, sharp amethyst eyes studying him with that downright frightful intensity he had when they weren’t shielded under the brim of the Choral Chapeau. The Bard’s expression broke before things could feel confrontational, looking away as a guilty pang rifled through his heart and instead studying the now lit fireplace supplying the room with much needed heat.

Another flicker of guilt went through him, realizing the Arcanist must have done so while he’d been preoccupied in the bath. He’d stubbornly let it burn itself out repeatedly over the last few days, only the equally stubborn nature of Alphinaud and Tataru relighting and supplying it with wood when they visited him.

“You should be offering counsel to Aymeric,” Alvaar murmured. “I can’t imagine you weren’t invited.”

“I was,” the Arcanist replied, leaving it at that as he looked away as well.

“You should go. Aymeric could use all the support he can get right now. I sincerely doubt the people of Ishgard have responded well to the truth of their war,” Alvaar murmured, sinking into a seat on the edge of the bed. It didn’t take long for the ruby carbuncle to trot over and sit next to his foot, leaning into his leg with a soft rumbling purr as a cozy warmth sank through the fabric of his cotton trousers.

“He will still need support and counsel on the morrow,” Alphinaud answered carefully, falling quiet a moment before finding a seat on the edge of the bed as well. A few poignant beats of silence passed between them before he spoke up again softly. “But I think the person who needs support the most right now is you.”

A tense stillness went through the Bard, a faint twitch in his jaw finally making him drag in a sharp breath through his nose.

“Don’t,” he murmured softly, the word a bit too low and flat. A touch heavy with the threat of tears for his liking. Swallowing thickly, he shook his head slightly and evened out his voice.

He could do that. He could swallow down despair and pain. He’d been doing it most of his life anyway... it was what made him so good at his job. A perfectly straight-faced hero of myth and legend the people could rally around…

“Don’t treat me like I’m fragile Leveilleur. I’ve endured hardship for longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve survived that, and I’ll survive this.” Pausing until he felt himself steadied again, Alvaar lifted his chin to regard the Arcanist levelly. “I’ll be alright,” he reassured softly.

Alphinaud met his gaze for a moment before looking down at his hands in contemplation.

“...Eventually,” he states, making Alvaar pause. “I... I cannot fathom what it must feel like to lose Lord Haurchefant knowing the love you hold for him,” he starts, words soft and cautious. “But I know what it is like to lose someone you care for greatly very suddenly. ... I know how much that hurts and how it lingers.”

It’s the first time, Alvaar realizes distantly as the youth looks up at him quietly with an open expression, that Alphinaud has ever spoken even passingly of his own grief in losing his Grandfather. He’s talked of his admiration certainly, but never of the hurt and loss. Even during the Binding Coils he had remained resolute in the face of what remained of Louisoix, taking the Archons words and knowledge to heart and moving forward.

He could only hope six years’ time might see him so well adapted to this pain...

It’s a harrowing thought and it makes his fingers twitch with anxiety.

“Have you eaten?” Alvaar asks instead. Because it’s easier to focus on that than the growing aches within him, physical and otherwise. More useful than sitting with a growing headache and the burden of feeling pitied.

It earns a puzzled blink before the Arcanist frowns a bit. “Have you?” he challenges instead.

Point.

“Come on. I need a drink anyway... let’s see what the kitchens look like and you can tell Tataru you made certain I ate something.” He stoops over to scoop up the carbuncle, draping it over his shoulder and waiting expectantly for its master to follow him.

“I can fetch you something instead,” Alphinaud offers even as he rises to his feet.

“I’m in the mood for something with cheese I think. Maybe some popotos if they have them. A skillet is easy enough...” Alvaar states almost more to himself as he walks, ruffling ruby fur again in thought.

“Alvaar,” Alphinaud starts, again hurrying after the Bard’s long strides.

“And what about you little summon? Do you eat? ... you also need a name. A creature should have a name. Alphi does he have one?” Alvaar carries on.

“Alvaar,” the Arcanist insists again, gripping onto his wrist and pulling them both to a stop.

The Bard doesn’t look back at him, merely keeps staring ahead in silence for a long time before whispering. “I can’t sit idle right now. So please, follow me if you have to but let me make something or I won’t be able to sleep.”

“You can make whatever you want Alvaar but please...” Alphinaud trailed off, fingers tightening faintly in their hold. “I’m worried for you… Talk to me.”

The silence is deafening in his ears as Alvaar ponders that. What would he even say...?

Breathing a slow sigh, he finally meets the youths gaze. Studies the worried furrow in his brow and the faint dark spots under his eyes. The still lingering fear in the tightness of that grip on his wrist...

He didn’t deserve any of this. Neither of them did, but Alphinaud especially.

“I’m afraid I’ve no words in me to give you. Not right now. Not... not yet. But when I have them, you’ll be the first to know,” he offers instead, sighing faintly when he can immediately tell the Arcanist isn’t convinced.

A startled squawk leaves the youth as Alvaar plants his free hand into soft hair and ruffles firmly, giving a faint amused huff when he’s immediately let go and swatted away.

“I’m not good with words like that Leveilleur.”

“Nonsense. You’re a Bard,” Alphinaud shot back flatly.

It made Alvaar snort, steadying the carbuncle on his shoulder and giving a weak grin. “Give me months and I’ll craft you a song about it. But right now the words aren’t there... but if I had to guess, I think you have plenty of your own,” he remarked, pointing at him briefly before settling back on his heels.

It made Alphinaud twitch, nearly jerking back at the statement, but his lack of protest and sudden pensive look said plenty.

“I’m sorry I haven’t asked how you’re holding up through this,” Alvaar apologized. “So, how about you tell me a bit about what’s on your mind for a change, and maybe I’ll find a bit of my own words too. Sound fair?”

“I... Alvaar is now really the time for that? You’ve enough burdens to bear,” he murmured worriedly.

“You knew them too, Alphi. Maybe hearing your thoughts will help order my own. If it’s too much I’ll tell you. But you’re not like to find a sympathetic ear to speak kindly of Ysayle in this city I think.”

It strikes home given the stillness that falls over the Arcanist just as he knew it would. While Alvaar couldn’t say he’d felt like he was best friends with the woman, there had been a kinship for sure. Even so it didn’t hold much comparison to the way he could tell Alphinaud had looked up to her. The youth had considered Ysayle and Estinien both like older siblings in their travels. Latched onto their inherent strengths of character as he’d been reeling from a staggering defeat and shaken ideals. He’d taken to self-improvement with a keen intent and noticeable lack of overblown pride in their journey for peace.

“It’s hardly so surprising,” Alphinaud remarks, letting go as he looked away. “I don’t imagine Ishgard will ever remember her fondly given the recent turmoil.”

“Then it’s good she has us to do it instead,” Alvaar offered, patting at his shoulder before nudging him along. “Come on. You can spill your heart out for once. Keep me company while I cook. Also, you never told me if your carbuncle has a name.”

A faint sigh left the Arcanist, raising a brow at him in vague annoyance and puzzlement even as they fell into step. “There’s no reason to name them. You realize that a carbuncle is merely an automaton channeled from the aether in its gem, right?”

“.... No.”

“Well it is. They’re not alive, they’re restructured and programmed aether so there’s little point in naming them.”

“... I’m going to call this one Rubi with an ‘I’,” Alvaar announces firmly.

“Why?”

“Because songs aren’t alive either, but we give them names to distinguish them. Otherwise nobody could ever request anything efficiently. I’d never be able to keep any of them straight and channel what I need to if I didn’t... sort of like labeling emotions... they’re not alive, but it’s nice to know what this particular flavor is.”

“So you’re going to call it Rubi. With an I,” Alphinaud remarked flatly in disbelief.

“Originality isn’t required if it’s efficient. Sides, then when you call him by his gem anyway, you’re still sort of using his name and then he won’t be sad.”

“Alvaar... carbuncles don’t have feelings.”

Holding his hands over the ruby carbuncle’s ears, Alvaar frowned at him even as the creature purred brightly. “Alphi, you’re not helping Rubi feel secure in his identity... That’s very rude.”

* * *

Alvaar isn’t surprised anymore when he surges up from a dead sleep in a rush of adrenaline and fear. It’s happened too much these last weeks. Several times before then for one reason or another be it memories of raining fire or the layered guilt from previous failings mixed into disorienting nightmares.

At some points in his life it’s almost stranger to him if he doesn’t wake up to a pounding heart.

So it’s probably for the best that the soft red glow of the carbuncle draped over his legs is so puzzling it distracts him. Else he may have very well punched Alphinaud in the face when the Arcanist stirs beside him with a sleepy grunt. He’d certainly done that a few times to Haurchefant in the past when he’d been startled awake. In fact, the knight had gotten quite good at blocking them and laughed in that upbeat way of his as he’d joked it was like impromptu practice. Like it somehow wasn’t a big deal. Like it-

He’s dead.

The thought hits him like the sour note of a broken harp string. Halting everything in his head as it does so. The unwanted remark that predates a room of awkward silence. The callous reminder from his brain that hits him at different speeds every time he wakes up. Sometimes right as he’s waking when he’s just opening his eyes. Sometimes, and heartbreakingly, tens of minutes later. When he can almost act normally until he remembers why he can’t.

_He’s dead._

He’s dead and he’s not coming back and it’s your fault.

You’re alone.

You’re always going to be al-

His eyes are burning when he feels a faint tug at his sleeve and he’s too mute with inner pain to do anything but press his hands into his face and try to get the sudden surge of tears to stop. He shouldn’t, but he doesn’t remember why as he drags in a stiff breath, lungs aching with a mute sob. It’s just a losing battle as he steadily breaks down in a wash of tears.

There’s a hand at his back. It’s not _his_ of course, he knows that. It’s too small. It’s too hesitant. It’s not the same movement pattern across his shoulders. Haurchefant had always touched his closest shoulder first. Trailed across his shoulder blades and back, steadily and warmly, gradually down across his back until he’d wrap that arm around his waist and pull him close. Tuck him under his chin and hold him tight in the warmth of his embrace until whatever deep dark in him had passed.

Everything about this is wrong and he could almost hate it and then hate the fact he hates it besides.

He _could._

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

Not when Alphinaud is trying. Not when there’s the press and warmth of contact as the Arcanist leans against his side. The slight shift of the mattress before a few seconds later Rubi is hopping back on the bed and squirming its way into his lap.

“Alvaar?” Alphinaud asks, voice a bit heavy still from sleep and the way he’s leaned into him speaks of fatigue. “Here.”

He felt something pushed against his arm gently, taking the scrap of fabric after a moment and trying to puzzle out what it is in the dark through his tears.

“Use it,” Alphinaud states after a moment, followed by a muffled yawn.

Handkerchief then. Perfect.

“Are you okay?”

He’s been quiet for several minutes when the question draws him from his thoughts. His fingers continue idly itching behind the carbuncle’s ears even as he ponders it.

“No,” he offers after a moment.

“Do you need anything?” Again, it’s punctuated with a sleepy noise, and he almost feels bad. He probably would if the Arcanist hadn’t insisted on staying the night with him even when he’d warned against this. But the silent worry and fear in those deep blue eyes hadn’t left him much in the way of argument. Just as he hadn’t missed the fact Alphinaud had quickly chosen the side of the bed closest to the balcony when they’d come back.

So he shakes his head with an accompanying noise of refusal, already knowing little would be able to soothe him at this point. It turns into a faint huff of surprise when the summon abruptly crawls away at a soft whistle from its master. Before he can ask, Alvaar pauses at the feel of hands tugging at him, the automatic shift to press a palm down for support as he almost overbalanced keeping Alphinaud from dragging him down outright. It takes him a few more seconds of puzzlement and a follow up insistent tug at his sleeve before he lets him have his way.

He ends up buried back in the fine sheets and blankets, Alphinaud quietly curling up next to him and slipping his arms around him, cradling Alvaar’s head against his chest before tucking his jaw against blond hair sleepily.

Bafflement crosses Alvaar’s face, tense and still in the silence even as he feels the carbuncle bedding down at his back. Was he really doing this? Alphinaud barely came up to his elbow and the younger Elezen was really going to try and hold him like this?

He’s 9 years Alphinaud’s senior and Alvaar feels abruptly and incredibly foolish.

But, he supposes to himself in the silence, given the times he’d embarrassed the Arcanist in the past with hair ruffles and hugs and being fed up with his at times childish stubbornness in the cold... fair was fair. It would be hypocritical of him to not accept comfort when it was offered and, honestly, desperately needed. Just because he’d long played part of dutiful myth and protector, it didn’t make him any better.

He’d learned repeatedly in his own bitter youth that trying to feign emotional invincibility was a fool’s errand.

“Get some rest my friend. Things will be better in time,” Alphinaud murmurs sleepily, fingers threading through loose blond strands absently.

For as strange as it all is... it’s comforting anyway. Steadying in a way he can’t describe. Warm and quiet and calm.

It reminds him of Rosa… of the closest he’d ever had to family that cared and actually gave loving support…

Dragging in a slow breath he sets aside his reservations as much as he can and leans into that contact. Just a little. And when the world doesn’t end, a little bit more. And when Alphinaud still hasn’t pulled away minutes later and remained steady and patient through it all, he finally sinks into that hold completely.

Let’s it quiet some of the restless things in him as he shuts his eyes and mercifully starts to feel the slow drift into sleep.

There’s still a storm of emotions in him. Still a weight behind his eyes and over his heart that he knows will linger for a long time. Thoughts and feelings that are blackest pitch roiling in his guts.

But a small comfort is still comfort nonetheless. And if he can make it through this night, he can start making it through all the rest that followed.

It’s the tiniest of starts, but perhaps with support like this... it will be plenty enough to keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melancolico: Melancholic
> 
> This is far from a conclusion to Alvaar and his own journey on coming to terms with his trauma and grief, but this is about where I can put an end to this specific segment. While I realize it doesn't tie off with a nice little 'and then everything was fine', my intention was always to try and approach this moment in his story with more realism than plot device. Grief, depression, loss... those all take time to heal and everyone's path is different. It's important to treat that with respect.
> 
> Not everything runs a straight course. There's seldom a moment of things just being 'okay' and it's alright to feel that way. Alvaar's almost sporadic bouncing between grief, making jokes, fixating on tasks, and even kicking in doors... while it feels almost spastic in writing, emotions in those moments often are. Understanding the steps one should take, or that how they feel is normal doesn't absolve the tangled journey or make the brain accept them. Logic does not instantly trump feeling, even as much as we wish it could. Things like guilt and worry and avoidance... not being able to say what's on our mind... not being able to ask the questions that frighten us... that's a harsh reality.
> 
> While I know this sort of "darker" look isn't everyone's cup of tea (and that's perfectly fine!), I am a believer that different stories resonate with different people. Putting this to "pen" as it were, has helped me to handle the current stressors of the world, so if reading it has helped you in any way to do the same, then that is my greatest wish.
> 
> Stay strong. We're all the heroes of our own journeys, and bard mom loves you.
> 
> If you liked this, or would be interested in more bits and pieces, I have a few more snippits and ideas from Alvaar's interactions in post-HW that aren't quite long enough to make their own stories, but I wouldn't mind tacking them onto Melancolico. Just let me know it's time to dig them out and brush them up!


End file.
